


That One Time with the Bugs

by ronsenburg



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Mummy Fusion, Bugs & Insects, Can't Stand 'Em!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronsenburg/pseuds/ronsenburg
Summary: Alternate title: “Woohoo! We’re alive! Let’s celebrate by making out in the middle of the desert while you bleed on me!” A continuation of my Mummy!AU promnis drabble, this time with action and kissing!





	That One Time with the Bugs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kunfetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kunfetti/gifts).



> I just realized this morning that I had never posted this on AO3! This was written as a birthday gift for the lovely kunfetti as a continuation of [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11896830/chapters/26874117). We're skipping ahead a bit here, as I still haven't decided whether or not I want to write this as a full-blown fic... and I mostly like writing the fun parts >> But anyway, enjoy!

Ignis knows the moment his fingers sink into the carved impression in the stone wall that he’s made a terrible mistake. He doesn’t need to glance back at Prompto, the other’s eyes suddenly wide with panic, to realize that he’s inadvertently set some awful string of events into motion that will be impossible to undo. There is just enough time to watch Prompto’s hand dart to his hip, freeing the gun there in one smooth motion, before the sound of rock scraping against rock becomes so overwhelmingly loud that Ignis’s hands shoot up, clamping around his ears.

It takes a moment of forcing his thoughts through the din for Ignis to realize the noise is originating from a panel in the wall to his left. He turns to watch the stone fall away in a cloud of dust that lingers in the air and threatens to obscure his vision with a thick, dense fog. The sound lasts impossibly long, seconds dragging out as Ignis coughs as much of the pulverized stone from his lungs as he can. But when he looks up, the haze clearing enough that he can see once again, the panel in the wall is entirely gone. Beyond is a hallway, stretching out long and dark into what Ignis can only assume is the heart of the pyramid. From his side, he can hear Prompto’s wheezing, and he glances over with some concern to see the other man staring at the newly revealed passage with some emotion akin to shock, one arm still thrown in front of his mouth as he coughs, struggling to regain his breath.

What lies before them is remarkable, and Ignis’s stomach flips accordingly as he peers inside. Just like the passage behind them, the walls inside are covered from floor to ceiling in the same pictographic language he had been deciphering only moments before, but with one exception: the story being told has changed. Ignis’s eyes fall immediately upon a symbol that he has never seen, a stylized combination of the symbol for pharaoh and night that seems to have been repeated across the surface, the patterns reaching out into the depths of the tomb. With a small glance back, Ignis reaches out a hand and Prompto passes him the torch, gun still raised in suspicion and aimed into the darkness. Ignis points the light down the passage, attempting to see just how far it stretches, but the light falls on something dark and low to the ground that scurries out of the circle of the bulb before Ignis can pinpoint exactly what it is.

“We’re not going down there… are we?” Prompto asks haltingly, the sound of his voice echoing down the walls.

And just like that, the noise of the falling stone is replaced by another sound, at first too soft to be discernible, but building steadily like a wave. Prompto glances at him, confusion evident in his features, but if he expects Ignis to provide any answers, he’s likely to be sorely disappointed; the sound is unlike anything Ignis has heard in the past, a soft rumbling that sounds more like a conglomeration of smaller, more delicate noises than one unified roar. He takes a tentative step forward, foot sliding against the powdered stone that layers the ground, but the illusion of movement from the end of the chamber catches his eye and he pauses.

The cloud of dust that floats on the air around them reflects the light of the electric bulb in an oppressive haze, and so, at first, Ignis doubts what his mind has told him he sees. Vaguely humanoid in both size and shape, it looms just outside the range of the light despite Ignis’s attempts to reveal it. The sound of the hammer clicking into place on Prompto’s gun is as good an indication as any that the shape isn’t just a figment of his imagination.

Ignis frowns, and the shadow begins to _move_.

It’s insects, he realizes as the shape collapses upon itself and surges forward. Thousands of them, possibly more. At least twenty different species that Ignis can distinguish on sight scuttle and dart and crawl forward at various paces, climbing over and around one and other in a mad dash toward the pinprick of sunlight that still gleams behind Prompto’s back like a beacon. Ignis stands frozen, transfixed at the sight, his brain far too preoccupied attempting to analyze and apply logic to the sight before his eyes to act.

“Oh crap,” he hears Prompto breathe, “Crap, crap, crap, _crap_.”

The feeling of Prompto’s hand wrapping around his wrist snaps Ignis back to reality, the sharp tug spurring him into sudden action. He turns, eyes meeting Prompto’s for only a moment before they’re off, sprinting back down the ancient passageway. Prompto had been poking fun at Ignis’s choice of footwear from the moment they’d set off, much to Ignis’s constant indignation. Perhaps it is fate, then, that those same shoes that he’d defended so passionately should fail him now, the fashionably elongated tip of his right toe wedging itself firmly into a crevice in the uneven floor. Ignis throws out a hand to absorb the impact of his fall, instantly feeling the sting of tearing flesh as his hand and forearm scrape along the roughly hewn stone.

The collision succeeds at knocking most of the wind from Ignis’s chest, his glasses slipping from the bridge of his nose and clattering to the ground. He can hear the sound of Prompto’s boots skidding to a sliding halt somewhere in front of him, and he raises his head with enough time to watch the way Prompto’s eyes- still so stunningly blue in the dim light of the chamber, a thought he most certainly has no time to dwell on now- go wider than Ignis had previously thought possible at the sight of something over Ignis’s right shoulder.

Ignis turns to look… and instantly wishes he hadn’t.

He is no entomologist, but even Ignis can tell that the insect that scuttles erratically towards him should not exist in the world as they currently know it. It appears to be a scorpion of some sort, similar in shape to the species Ignis had observed sunning themselves on rocks in the desert, but large enough that Ignis is certain it could rival the tomcat that frequently visited his office back home. It is so much larger, in fact, that Ignis wonders if perhaps he had hit his head in the fall as well. It steps forwards towards him with a slow, determined sort of malice, it’s segmented tail raised threateningly above its dark body, poised to strike. The desert sun spills through the entryway, light reflecting a blue sheen from the creature’s exoskeleton, and Ignis can see the thick venom coating its lethal barb.

There is a noise like a sharp crack, far too loud in the confined stone chamber, the sound reverberating off the walls around them until it is replaced by a dull ringing in his ears. When he glances up again the scorpion has stumbled back, curling in on itself as it falls heavily to the ground. He can feel a hand grasping his shoulder and he turns again. Prompto’s mouth is moving rapidly, words Ignis can’t seem to hear tumbling from his lips as his eyes dart to the space behind them, to Ignis’s bleeding forearm, to the chamber entrance that is so close that Ignis can feel the heat of the desert air. Prompto sticks out a gloved hand once more and Ignis takes it, momentarily surprised at the ease in which Prompto seem to hoist him to his feet.

Ignis makes a quick grab for his glasses as his shoes struggle to find purchase on the slick stone ground. They sprint the remaining meters, feet sliding beneath them as stone meets sand, and stumble out into the heat of midday. Ignis spins around, watching the insects scatter as they reach the hot sand, some of them turning to retreat back into the darkness while still others fan out, heading off somewhere into the horizon.

It takes a good three minutes for the ringing in his ears to subside.

When it does, the first thing he hears is Prompto’s voice, sharp and strained to the point of breaking.

“I thought you said booby traps were a myth!” Prompto is shouting with what little breath he can catch, bent double with his elbows placed on his knees, “Because, I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty much what I imagined a booby trap looks like!”

Ignis glances down to his hand, where drops of bright blood well and drip down his arm before collecting in the white cotton of his shirt somewhere at his elbows. Though the cut likely looks worse than it is, Ignis finds it hard to judge as the pain is nothing but a distant annoyance, more of a small sting of discomfort where sand has embedded itself in the wound than anything resembling actual injury.

“Look, I didn’t sign up for bugs, okay?” Prompto continues, stepping forward and gesturing wildly in Ignis’s direction with hands that alternate between accusing thrusts and brushing phantom insects from his arms and the back of his neck. “Bad guys with guns, sure! Fine! But bugs? No way.”

Ignis doesn’t answer. Adrenaline pumps through his body, his pulse fast enough that he can still hear the blood rushing rhythmically through his ears. His body hums with the exertion, his head light enough that Ignis assumes that this must be similar to the effects of chemical stimulants. For the moment, he understands the appeal.

Because, though the experience was terrifying and overwhelming, it had also been _thrilling_ in a way that seems to make his head spin.

Ignis isn’t sure he’s ever felt quite so alive.

“Are you even listening to me?” Prompto is saying, jabbing his fingers forcefully into Ignis’s chest and Ignis blinks at him through his daze, “Dude, I don’t care if you’re a Doctor, that was seriously stupid!”

Later, Ignis will blame the coursing adrenaline for the way he reaches out, trapping Prompto’s hands in his own before pulling him forward. Prompto tenses briefly, a sharp line forming between his brows and a question already springing to his lips as he glances up into Ignis’s eyes.

“Do shut up,” Ignis mumbles, and leans in.

And perhaps it’s not the action that Prompto expects, but he doesn’t seem to object to it either, instead pressing up on his toes to crush their mouths together so forcefully that their teeth click painfully- a fact neither of them seem to pay much mind. Prompto tastes like the dust from the chamber that coats Ignis’s own lips, but underneath it, something unique and indescribable, and Ignis feels his already labored breath hitch in the back of his throat.

He is unsure how long they stand there, sun beating down on his slightly bent neck and lost in the feeling of Prompto’s open mouth and tongue swiping against his own, but it isn’t nearly long enough. Eventually, Prompto’s fingers splay, finding purchase on Ignis’s chest as he pushes- _hard_ \- and Ignis takes a stumbling, half-step back.

Prompto blinks furiously, a blush rising to the edge of his cheeks as his mouth falls open and closed repeatedly, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. 

“We… we almost just got eaten by bugs,” he stutters eventually, “Why did you-?”

“Half of those species have been extinct for a century” Ignis cuts in, still holding Prompto’s wrists in his hands and attempting to disguise the fact that his breath is coming in faint pants. It seems futile at this point to mention that Prompto had most certainly returned the kiss. “Many have never been seen outside of religious iconography.”

“So…?” Prompto replies, looking all the more petulant for his blown pupils and slightly swollen lips. 

Ignis wants to kiss him again. 

“ _So_ we’ve disturbed an isolated microenvironment unseen by the world since King Caelum’s death,” he says instead, wondering if he sounds quite as giddy as he feels.

Prompto’s face falls, indignation melting from his features as understand visibly takes its place. “… we’re going back in there, aren’t we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading and, as always, feel free to come and share the promnis love with me on [tumblr](http://ronsenburg.tumblr.com).


End file.
